


somebody to love

by pissedofsandwich



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: 2010s Era, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Face-Fucking, M/M, Social Media, Very slight Dom/Sub undertones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 23:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16670593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: By anyone’s standards, Snafu Shelton isn’t a typical leading man. He’s not charming, he doesn’t want to please the crowd. He never wants to answer any questions straight. He gives exactly zero fucks to all the things that he’s supposed to do to become a well-loved rockstar, and that frustrates the media.Eugene finds himself enthralled by him anyway.rockstars!AU





	1. Chapter 1

Sid thinks the kind of music _The Pacific_ creates is ostentatious. They are anarchy in music form, angry guitar riffs and angrier lyrics – hardly the type of music that his mother would have his good Southern son listen to. Eugene likes it because it puts him through medical school; all his rage and frustration at the education system absorbed by their unforgiving drum solos. As soon as he learns they’re going to play in Boston, he purchases a ticket and makes sure to have his schedule cleared.

 _The Pacific_ ’s newest drummer is a mouthy New York native called Bill. He’s been a touring member for over a year, until he’s finally given the full title of ‘band member’ just last week. He’s getting mouthier since, posting pictures of an annoyed Snafu and stupid polls on his Twitter. _The Pacific_ has had so many line-up changes in the past that it’s so hard to keep up. At one point, Flo, Burgie’s fiancée, fills in as their bassist for two whole months, until she’s replaced by Hamm with two m’s. Hamm quits just three weeks ago; Eugene hasn’t had time to check the updates, see who the new bassist is.

The media likes to chalk this phenomenon up to Snafu’s general personality – unlikable, abrasive, antagonistic. Likes to blame Snafu for the instability of his band. By anyone’s standards, Snafu Shelton isn’t a typical leading man. He’s not charming, he doesn’t want to please the crowd. He never wants to answer any questions straight. He gives exactly zero fucks to all the things that he’s supposed to do to become a well-loved rockstar, and that frustrates the media. They want to see a new Freddie Mercury, some kind of tempest with the voice of an angel – instead they have Snafu Shelton, hunched over his piano and growling into his mic like he wants to start a war. Despite how badly the media writes it up, their songs remain on the charts for weeks, and their fans stay devoted.

Snafu’s fans, particularly, are _very_ devoted. Instead of pushing fans away, Snafu’s general disregard for pleasantries turns a bunch of people online on – Eugene will never probably be able to unread the some of the most obscene comments he’s read about Snafu, but god, he isn’t blind. Snafu’s kind of alluring in pictures. Something about that deep-set eyes, his messy curls, the way he talks so slow like the world both exhausts and amuses him in equal measure – it’s hard to imagine that he isn’t somebody’s cup of tea.

In person, when he’s singing not a foot away from Eugene, Snafu’s attractiveness doubles in its intensity. It’s one of their slower songs, Snafu on piano and all alone, spotlight on him. His signature military green leather bomber jacket is draped over the piano, long since abandoned about half a song ago. That thing is the ugliest thing Eugene has ever seen, and it only makes sense that Gucci designers custom-made it for him. It’s the jacket that Snafu wears to _The Pacific_ ’s first Grammy event, and he hasn’t let go of it since – even if they don’t come home with any awards.

He’s now left with sheer white t-shirt, clinging to his body with sweat, no care in the world as he sings soulfully into the microphone. After about an hour of jumping up and down – there’s even a moshpit, at some point – the crowd eases and loosens up to the sound of his voice.

The first song ends, and the crowd cheers for him, wanting more. Snafu takes a sip from the beer perched on top of the piano. There’s a grand piano that no one ever uses back in Eugene’s Alabama home. His mother used to play, and she cares for the piano like it’s her own child. She would disapprove of Snafu littering the top with red solo cups of beer. He gingerly puts it back, and punches in some keys that don’t really sound like a song.

Snafu isn’t looking at the crowd when he speaks. “Have y’all ever been in love?”

His voice booms across the large venue – all of 10,000 people, and they all cheer back a chorus of _yes_ back at Snafu. A girl shrills, “I love you, Snafu!” and Snafu snorts into his microphone.

“You love me?” he says. “Boo, you ain’t even know me.”

The crowd goes nuts at that.

It’s the last thing Snafu says, before he launches into his next song. It’s a little jazzy, showcases more of his voice than any other songs. The crowd melts into it, swaying and singing along, and Eugene has never felt more in awe of a man than he is at that moment.

God, Snafu is amazing.

-

Later, when the last note has long since rung out, Eugene goes to have a smoke just outside of the venue, sharing his lighter with three other twenty-somethings in leather jackets. Eugene feels a little under-dressed, if he’s being honest, in his black jeans and worn-out denim jacket. They all wear make-up, even the one guy with an undercut – just a tiny flick of black eyeliner along his lash line, but still. Dressed to nines in a show where they sweat out.

“Thanks,” one of them passes his lighter back. She’s taller than Eugene in her platform boots, her lipstick blood red. When she sucks in around her cigarette, it leaves a ring of red around the white perimeter. She eyes Eugene curiously. “Who are you here for?”

The question is a little off-putting – the way she phrases it doesn’t sound right. But Eugene assumes it probably means who his favorite member is. “I don’t really have a favorite member, really,” he says, because admitting that he mostly comes here to watch Snafu perform shirtless for nearly an hour feels a little shallow. “Their music is amazing.”

“So you’re not picky,” the guy with black eyeliner says.

“Um, guess not?” Eugene replies.

“You’re probably going to be Snafu’s type,” the first girl notes. She reaches out to push back his hair, and Eugene nearly recoils – the touch of a stranger is always unwelcome. But she doesn’t take note of his discomfort. “There, you look better.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Eugene says.

“Cheer up, honey. Honestly, it’s a compliment,” one of the two girls says. “God knows I want him to take me.”

“Amen,” the guy with eyeliner echoes, blowing out his smoke with a smirk.

Then it clicks to Eugene. The nice clothes, the make-up – they’re _groupies_. He feels his cheeks redden with embarrassment. He’s read about the stories, the crazy after-parties the band throws, drug-induced and sexual. He always dismisses those stories as sensationalized, but faced with actual groupies, he doesn’t know what to think.

“Oh, look, there Chuckler is,” the guy with eyeliner says. Eugene follows his line of vision, and sees a severe-looking man walking towards them. He has on a t-shirt that says, in capital letters, _security._ Chuckler takes in the sight of all of them, two girls in blood-red lipstick, one absolutely beautiful guy with eyeliner, and Eugene. “Hi, Chuckler.”

Chuckler grunts something unintelligible. “You guys ready?”

“Yeah,” the first girl throws her cigarette to the asphalt, snubbing it out with the heel of her boots. “Lead us the way.”

This is Eugene’s last chance to clarify the situation – tell the whole group that he’s genuinely here for the music, that he’s not a groupie.

Eugene doesn’t take it.

Chuckler holds out his palm. “Phones,” he says, and adds, pointedly, to the first girl, “All four of them.”

Eugene feels a sense of absurdity settles in as soon as he hands out his phone. God, what is he doing?

“You’ll get them back after you’re done,” Chuckler says with an air of casualty that lets Eugene knows this isn’t Chuckler’s first rodeo. How long has _The Pacific_ been inviting in groupies to their post-concert festivities? Chuckler motions for them to follow him.  “Stay close and don’t draw attention to yourself, or you’re out.”

This is really happening, then.

Eugene follows behind the three original groupies – god, he needs to learn their names, it’s starting to feel rude referring them as groupies in his head. He doesn’t know what compels him to do this, and a tiny part of him feels a little dirty. He’s a _pediatrician,_ for god’s sake. His mother would faint if he ever finds out that her good, god-fearing son is following a security head to a secluded place where he’s hoping to be fucked by a band member. But there’s another part of him that’s bigger and louder, that sees Snafu and feels something in his stomach stir, and somehow that part wins.

He’s just hoping that his face isn’t plastered all over tabloids the next morning.

-

Chuckler leads them to the backstage through a series of twists and turns that have Eugene believing that he’s not going to make it out by himself. Walking into the so-called party is a bit anti-climactic; he half expects to be welcomed by a complete display of debauchery when he arrives, drugs on the table and orgies already halfway through. Instead, he’s welcomed by the sound of laughter, the faint clink of glass like the sounds of a restaurant. The band’s not the only one enjoying the party. In the corner of the room, he sees Flo and Burgie, cuddling on a loveseat, watching as Bill and Snafu – god, there he is – argue over… is that _monopoly_ on the coffee table?

“Chuckler!” the new bassist bounces over. Eugene remembers his name from when they all introduced themselves earlier – Jay with a French-sounding last name, the newest addition to the touring member of _The Pacific_. He eyes the four of them, curious but not unwelcome. “This is them?” he asks to Chuckler, and as soon as Chuckler nods, breaks out into a smile. “Bill and I are in the middle of something, if you’d like to join us.”

“Hey,” Bill waves at them, that half-smirk that he so often wears stretched over the mouth of a bottle. “You spotted the nicest looking ones, Chuckler.” Chuckler only grunts in response, and leaves the room at once. Door closed, Bill straightens up. “Come here. Take a seat. All of you.”

As they walk closer, Eugene confirms that indeed, they are playing monopoly.

The two girls take their seat sandwiching Bill, who looks pleased about it. Jay occupies an empty armchair next to Bill, and the guy with the eyeliner follows him, sitting nearly half on his lap.

“Be the judge, alright, girlies?” Bill says, looking to the left and right. “'Cos shit’n’ass here is cheating, but he won’t admit it.”

“You’re just a sore loser, Bill Leyden,” Snafu says. “Fuck this shit. I ain’t playing any more of this game with your sorry ass.” Snafu stands up, and immediately catches Eugene’s eyes. Eugene holds his breath – up close, he can see that Snafu’s eyes aren’t grey; they’re a light blue, a little dark in dim light, but beautiful all the same. Then the moment is broken, and Snafu shuffles past him to make his way to the bar.

Eugene finds himself rooted to his spot, unsure if he should follow along and sit next to Bill in what tiny space is left on the loveseat, or be an uncomfortable thirdwheel to Burgie and Flo. He hopes that it doesn't show that he's hopelessly nervous and so far out of his comfort zone. He doesn't think he can even go back to his comfort zone after this.

He sits next to Burgie, who has Florence on his lap.

"You look like Bambi," Flo notes as soon as he sits down. He notes a hint of an accent in her voice. "So clueless. Your first time?"

Eugene laughs, hoping it eases the pounding in his chest. "Is it so obvious?"

"Have a beer," Flo suggests. "You don't need to be nervous – most of them who come here, they don't always end up having sex. We just talk for the most part. We love company, the more the merrier."

Burgie offers Eugene an unopened bottle, his smile is kind. How is he so... matter-of-fact with this? How many times have they invited overeager fans backstage that they're treating this as normal? Eugene's head is about to burst from all the questions, the pure absurdity of the situation. There he is, living out scenarios that only happen in movies, and he can't stop freaking the fuck out.

He accepts the bottle gratefully.

"What's your name?" Flo asks.

"I'm – " Should he give his real name? "Eugene."

"You don't sound like you're from Boston," Burgie comments.

"Yeah, I – I'm from Mobile, Alabama. Came here for work."

"What do you do?" Flo asks.

"I'm a pediatrician," Eugene answers.

Burgie's eyebrows raise, visibly impressed. Eugene feels his stomach warm at that; though it could be just the beer. "Nice," Burgie smiles. "You love kids, Doctor?"

"You have to, right?" Flo says, leaning forward. She still has her arms around Burgie. It should be awkward that he's having a conversation with a girl sitting on her fiancé's lap while she mildly flirts with him –  can he say that they're both flirting with him? Because Burgie is licking his lips, and Eugene is sure it's not due to dehydration.

"Well," Eugene swallows. "It's hard not to love them, you know? They're – the future of our world."

It sounds like some bullshit someone would put on their tinder bio to impress their dates, but maybe Eugene is trying to impress Flo and Burgie.

Flo grins, cat-like, and looks at Burgie. They seem to be communicating something with their eyes, and Eugene feels he's being intrusive, so he turns his head the other way.

To find Snafu is staring at him.

Bill and Leckie are smoking and joking with the groupies – they’ve started a new game of monopoly, and somewhere in the course of the five minutes that he spent talking to Burgie and Flo, the girl with the boots is sitting on Bill’s lap.

And Snafu is staring at him.

Eugene holds his eye contact as he brings the rim of the bottle to his mouth. He takes two big gulps, and Snafu continues his stare, blowing out a perfect ring of smoke.

"Oh, dear," he hears Flo sigh, turning around to face her. She puts her hand on his cheek, and pats it twice. "We would've loved to have fun with you some other time."

Without missing a beat, Burgie adds, "But it looks like you're already spoken for."

Burgie nods at Snafu's direction with meaning. Eugene looks back at him, but Snafu's turned away.

"Go chase him," Flo says.

Snafu looks up, and when their eyes catch again, Eugene puts down his beer bottle.

Snafu straightens up, putting out his cigarette on the coffee table, nearly burning the fake dollar bills set aside by Leckie in favor of making out with the Eyeliner Guy – Eugene hopes he gets to learn his name, and the two girls, before the night ends.

 _However_ the night ends.

Snafu walks back to the bar. Eugene follows him.

The party isn’t just for the band – there are roadies, music execs, some special guests. They pay him no mind as he approaches Snafu, too busy talking and getting drunk to notice some plain-looking white boy in a denim jacket slithering up behind him – that, at least, comforts him even just a little. He is really going to try to get laid with the lead vocalist of _The Pacific_.

Sid is going to lose his mind.

“Can’t help but notice you staring at me the whole time,” Eugene says, praying his voice reflects the bravado he’s trying to channel instead of the beating of his heart.

Snafu’s smile is almost mocking, a little bit of teeth showing. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “Maybe I just like to watch the new groupies get all nervous.” Eugene flushes, and Snafu watches him fidget from the rim of his cup, satisfied. Eugene has a feeling that Snafu feels like he’s winning, like his goal ever since he lays his eyes on Eugene is to make him as uncomfortable as possible. It’s fortunate that Eugene is very competitive.

Later, when he’s at home after all this ends, he’ll wonder where the fuck all that unearthed confidence comes from. Right now, Eugene grins back at him and says, “Well, maybe I want someone to pop my cherry.”

It’s incredibly cheesy that it’s almost disgusting, but Snafu’s mouth quirks a little, like he’s fighting hard not to smile. “Really,” he says, slow like honey. “How exactly do you want it?”

“I’m up for suggestions,” Eugene says. “Although – I would say I’m more often on the giving end of things.”

 _What the fuck, Eugene Sledge._ He really _is_ a groupie.

Snafu lets out a breath. For the first time, that cocky edge to his smile vanishes, replaced by something a little more uncertain. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says. “I’m not some kind of hero that you worship. You got some fantasies, fucking a rockstar, but at the end of the day, you’ll find that you won’t like me. As much as I want to, I think you’d better off with someone else. Threesome with Flo and Burgie, I don’t know –“ he rakes a hand through his curls. “But not me.”

“But I want you,” Eugene says, searching for Snafu’s eyes.

Snafu’s eyes are unreadable. Eugene hopes he’s not stepping over a line, hopes he’s not pushing, but he knows Snafu wants this as much as he does when he mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and drags him away from the party.

The hallway is deserted – at this hour, even the janitors must’ve all gone home. Half of the lights are off, and Eugene finds himself relying solely on Snafu’s lead for direction. He is fully aware of what the following events will be, and he can’t quite pinpoint what exactly are his feelings about this whole situation. The only thing he knows is that he will have to contemplate this long and hard when he gets home, preferably while drunk.

Snafu stops at a door with a printed paper that says his name on it. With ease, he fishes out an access card and pushes the door open, letting Eugene take in the bare walls of his dressing room before crowding him to the wall.

“You remind me too much of someone I know,” Snafu says into his ears.

“Yeah?” Eugene breathes. It’s hard to, when Snafu’s mouth is mere inches away from him. “He a redhead?”

“But you’re much prettier,” Snafu promises. He brings one hand to trace Eugene’s bottom lip, and Eugene resists the urge to open his mouth, to suck in Snafu’s fingers. “I’m gonna kiss you,” and he does. Snafu’s hand resting on his jaw, Eugene snakes an arm to grip the back of Snafu’s neck, opening his mouth and letting Snafu lick into it. He has no idea how he expects Snafu to kiss – never lets his attraction to the man go more than simple appreciation of his face and his voice, but it’s only right that Snafu kisses like this – a little bit rough and urgent, just like all of his songs.

Snafu curses when they pull away, lips spit-slick and hanging half-open. Eugene wants to kiss him again, nearly drunk with the burning need to lick into his mouth. "You," Snafu says, almost accusingly, pulling Eugene closer. "I gotta know your name."

"Eugene." Unlike with Burgie and Flo earlier, Eugene has no hesitation about giving up his real name. That probably says a lot more about him than it does about Snafu. He's essentially fulfilling his fantasies – one where somehow, what they're doing here matters, when he knows that he can't have been the only one. Or the first, really. Snafu's string of broken hearts is often plastered on tabloids. Yet Snafu has been the one to ask for his name. 

Eugene doesn't want to read too much into that, so he just whines until Snafu kisses him again, just as hard. 

"Need to suck you," Eugene pants between kisses. 

"Fuck." Snafu sounds like he's been punched. His eyes are darker than Eugene remembers. "Yes, yes – you can."

Eugene is almost embarrassed by how fast he drops to his knees. He thinks he should have a little more dignity, show not too much – and all thoughts of that nature fly out the window as soon as he frees Snafu from his tight-fitting jeans. Snafu hisses at the contact of cold air against his bare cock, and Eugene finds himself enthralled. He takes Snafu in one hand, tongue darting out to lick experimentally at the head of Snafu's cock. 

Above him, Snafu lets out a choked off groan. 

Encouraged, Eugene keeps going, licking up and down his shaft, playing with his balls teasingly. Snafu's hands fly to the back of his head, fingers tangled in his strands, gripping just hard enough for it to be on the pleasurable side of pain. Eugene can't help but moan, overcome with the need to take as much of Snafu as he can down his throat, heat settling down in his stomach. He’s aware that he’s painfully hard, and yet all he wants is to make sure that he looks at Snafu in the eyes as his mouth sinks down on Snafu's cock, engulfing him fully.

"God," Snafu's head thumps back against the wall, fingers tightening.

Eugene hollows his cheeks and sucks, from the base all the way to the head, repeating the motions until he can do it with his eyes closed. He tries to swallow him more, fighting against the gag reflex that threatens to end this far too early, until his nose us buried in the soft hairs on Snafu’s lower abdomen. Snafu starts to move his hips experimentally, and when Eugene’s response is to moan around his cock, he quickens up his pace, fucking into Eugene’s mouth in earnest. Eugene lets him, keeps his mouth open, saliva dripping down his chin and onto his jacket – lets him, even as he’s struggling to breathe.

"Look at me," Snafu says, out of breath and almost as if he's in awe. Eugene does, hoping the tears that are starting to form in the corner of his eyes don't make him look pathetic. Snafu eases his cock off, intending to give Eugene time to breathe, but Eugene won't let him. He grips Snafu's thighs, stopping him, and something in Snafu's eyes changes. He releases Eugene's hair, tipping up his chin gently. "Do you want to go on?"

Eugene nods – as much as he could with Snafu's cock in his, anyway. 

"God, look at you," Snafu moans, pushing his jaw backwards so he can look at the bulging of Eugene's throat. "Taking it so good."

The heat in his stomach travels all over to his body.  Snafu's hand is now on the back of his head, pushing him forward to meet his thrusts. He has half a mind to regret not taking off his clothes, or at least his denim jacket – he doesn't even want to know how messy he looks right now. The sound of Snafu hitting the back of his throat repeatedly is the most obscene thing Eugene has ever heard in his entire life, and he opens his mouth in a silent plea to give him more. 

His voice is going to be ruined tomorrow. He doesn't care.

"I'm gonna come," Snafu warns, the movement of his hips halting for one terrible second before Snafu realizes that Eugene wants him to come down his throat, isn't gonna let go, and that seems to undo him. His back arches off the wall when he comes, and Eugene closes his eyes and he feels his mouth fill with Snafu. He tastes bitter and a little unpleasant, and this time when Eugene chokes, he pulls away in an attempt to steady his breath.

"You're so perfect," Snafu says, crouching down to Eugene's level to embrace him, ease him as Eugene coughs, out of breath and flushed all over. There are streaks of come down Eugene's chin, bits that he couldn't swallow, and Snafu wipes it off with his white t-shirt.

"So good, so perfect," Snafu keeps murmuring, pressing kisses to his neck, forehead, and shoulders. He pulls Eugene up, turning them around so Eugene's now the one pinned to the wall. He keeps his arms around Eugene’s middle, and it feels like it's the only thing that keeps Eugene from sliding off completely. "Gonna take care of you now," Snafu says into his neck, sure hands working at the opening of his belt.

Eugene lets him push his jeans and briefs down to pool around his ankles, closing his eyes as Snafu's tight fist close around his cock. Moans fall from his mouth as Snafu jerks him off, forehead pressed against the wall and Snafu’s teeth grazing his shoulder blades. The release feels too much, with his throat still raw from before, and the sensation has his knees buckling.

"I got you," Snafu says, catching him readily. “ _I got you_.”

He’s never felt like this before – like he’s been taken apart so thoroughly. His whole body feels weak, boneless, only capable of leaning against Snafu for support. He helps him onto the couch, lying him down on the soft decorative pillow so gently, Eugene feels like he’s a baby. His chest is still heaving, and the lights feel suddenly too bright so he puts one arm over his eyes. He attempts to calm his racing thoughts.

Faintly, he feels Snafu cleaning him up with a wet cloth – is he using the discarded white shirt from before? Where does the water even come from? How does he look right now? – but it all feels as if he's watching it all happen from underwater. 

When sleep comes for him, he embraces it.


	2. Chapter 2

When Eugene wakes up, he's so disoriented that he falls off the couch.

"Ouch," he grunts.

The first thing he registers is the floor – it’s covered in a red carpet, and way, way fancier than anything that he has in his apartment. The second is his clothes – they're not his, for one, he knows this instantly for the way it clings uncomfortably to his body like second skin, and his denim jacket is nowhere to be seen. But he's wearing another jacket – a military green leather jacket that is definitely too expensive to be his.

The third is the voice.

"You okay there, boo?"

He rolls over on his back to see Snafu Shelton hovering above him. He looks more amused than anything, the cigarette dangling between his lips painting a perfect picture of nonchalance.  
  
“Shit,” he tries to say, but his voice gets caught in his sore throat. Going through today is going to be hell. Eugene sits up, accepting the bottle of water Snafu thoughtfully offers him with only half of his dignity intact. Snafu leans back on the opposite couch and watches him drink, something about his eyes that’s inquisitive and intimate. It makes Eugene feel naked.

"I hope you don't mind that I took care of your clothes," Snafu says. In the thick silence of the room, it feels too jarring.  
  
" _Took_ _care_ of it?" Eugene's eyebrows rise.  
  
Snafu smirks. "Unless you wanna go with cum-stained jacket, they're in the trash."  
  
Eugene wants to tell him that Snafu can't just throw people's clothes away, but he resigns himself to the fact that Snafu is probably right. He does not want to come home with cum-stained anything.  
  
"'Sides, it's Gucci," Snafu says. "Keep it."  
  
Is Eugene supposed to say thank you?   
  
"Well, uh," Eugene clears his throat. God, he needs more water. "I'm gonna – go, I guess."  
  
Just before he opens the door, Snafu calls his name. _Gene_ , he says it. Eugene isn't sure he can forget how Snafu calls his name any time soon.  
  
"You should find someone special to do those things to," Snafu says.   
  
It stops Eugene in his tracks. He has no idea what to say to that – this is going to be a trend, it seems, Snafu saying things that are strangely earnest, baffling Eugene so much that he is at a loss for words. He supposes he should take it as a compliment, but it feels wrong. So he simply nods and leaves the room to have the most bizarre walk of shame of his life.  
  
-  
  
Eugene orders a _Lyft_ as soon as he gets his phone back from the unsmiling security head. He doesn't come across anyone else on his way out, and he counts his small mercies. It's nearly five am, and Eugene has an early shift at the hospital. The whole ride, he stubbornly makes his mind focus on something else – Sid's upcoming birthday, Elsie's – the 6-year-old who comes twice a month to get treated for bronchitis – improving health, or about the eight drinks that he's _surely_ going to need to rationalize the past eighteen hours.

It's almost sunrise when he arrives back home, the air cold on his nose and smelling fresh. As he walks up the stairs, he puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket – Snafu's jacket – for his keys. Instead, his hands find nothing.  
  
"Fuck," Eugene curses. " _Fuck fuck fuck_ – “  
  
He always keeps his keys in his denim jacket. The jacket that is now somewhere in a trashbag.  
  
Willing himself not to panic, he remembers that his landlord, who holds the master key, is away on a vacation until Tuesday. Eugene can't picklock, so there's only one option left.  
  
Eugene stares at Sid's number on his phone, unsure if he should tell the truth or make up some elaborate lie, but he figures that sooner or later Sid will find out.  
  
He dials his number.  
  
"You better be dying, Sledge," Sid answers after seven rings.  
  
"Depends what you consider as dying, but I am currently in crisis," Eugene says. "Look, long story short, I lost my key. I have an early shift at 6 at the hospital today and my landlord is out, so can I take a shower at yours and maybe also borrow some clothes?"  
  
Sid is so quiet on the other hand that Eugene's worried he's ended the call. He puts the phone away from his ear, and seeing that it's still on-going, he tries once again. "Sid?"  
  
"Eugene," Sid says, something about his tone that suggests he must be wearing a shit-eating grin. "Is this a walk-of-shame situation?"  


"...No," he lies. "Okay, fine, yes. Kind of. Look, I'll tell you all about it later, but please, can I come to your apartment now?"  
  
Sid lets out a satisfied laugh. He clearly enjoys Eugene's suffering. When this all blows over, Eugene is going to have to open applications for new best friends. "Man, I can't wait to see the look on your face."  
  
"Fuck you, Sid," Eugene grunts. "I'll be there in five."  
  
Sid lives just a few blocks away, thank god, that Eugene has no problems walking there. As expected, he greets him with a smile that's too wide to be anything but mocking, taking in the sight of a disheveled Eugene like the gossip vulture he pretends he's not.  
  
"Shut up," Eugene pushes past him, scowling.  
  
"Damn, Eugene," Sid winks at the bomber jacket Eugene's still wearing. Why is Eugene still wearing Snafu's jacket? "You sure look like you had fun."  
  
Eugene rolls his eyes, deciding that he doesn't have time to deal with Sid's teasing because his shift starts in thirty minutes, Christ. He takes a hot shower and scrubs his body as clean as possible, hoping that he doesn't look like anything he's been doing last night. Eugene folds up his dirty laundry and spends a second too long looking at the bomber jacket – it's like he can still feel Snafu' touch on his skin, his neck.  
  
_Look at me. Do you want to go on?_  
  
Eugene shakes his head. This isn't the first he has a one night stand. He should be able to treat this like any other one night stand he has.  
  
He puts on the clothes Sid sets aside for him – a crisp white shirt and black slacks – and orders a _Lyft_ while walking to the kitchen, where Sid is drinking orange juice straight from the carton.  
  
"Who raised you?" Eugene crinkles his nose.   
  
"Don't wanna deal with washing the glass later," Sid says. "I live alone, anyways!"  
  
Sid would eat off a frying pan if it means he doesn't have to do the dishes. The laziness of his friend astounds him sometimes - growing up with maids cleaning up after your mess doesn't help. Half running out the door, Eugene tells Sid, "I'm gonna go - thanks for everything!"  
  
"You owe me an explanation!" Sid yells back, and Eugene pretends to not have heard him.  
  
-  
  
Thankfully, his job demands enough of his attention that he doesn't think about Snafu at all. His job is the most important thing to him, he won't let anything distract him from it, even rockstars with deep eyes. His decision to become a doctor has nothing to do with his father's influence, contrary to what his family lets him think. It has to do with cold winter nights - his days of volunteering at homeless shelters, feeling helpless as he watches a woman cradle her baby in her arms and wails. The baby is blue, has long since dead - she was kicked out of her apartment after she failed to pay her rent, and has spent three consecutive days living on the street until the organization that Eugene volunteers for finds her, but by the time they call the medics on the baby, it's already too late.

Something in Eugene breaks that day, his understanding of humanity somewhat skewed. The baby could've survived, but some bastard who cares more about money than human lives decides to kick them out in the dead of winter to die freezing deaths.  
  
It changes Eugene's outlook on life, forcing him to reevaluate his life and the privilege that he's grown up with. The way he looks at children is different now - because now he will do anything to keep them alive, through whatever sickness befalls them. He turns down a position for a pediatrician at Alabama' finest, most elite hospitals when he realizes staying would mean getting stuck in a circle of nepotism and elitism. So he moves to Boston - and here he is.  
  
A particularly fussy baby coming in for flu shots takes half an hour of Eugene's time before lunch. He cries even after Eugene tries to distract him with songs and tricks, and the baby's mom keeps apologizing profusely. Eugene is exhausted and incredibly hungry after the baby's gone home.   
  
With a moment to himself, Eugene does what every person his age does when given free time - he checks his phone. He always leaves his phone on silent when he's working, not wanting to disturb his patients. A quick swipe at the screen lets him know that Sid has sent him four text messages, all asking him to have lunch with him and Mary, no doubt to dig deeper into his apparent "walk-of-shame."  
  
All morning, Eugene's succeeded in not thinking about last night at all - one vague mention of it, and Eugene's back to remembering every detail vividly. His words, his actions, the weight of his cock in Eugene's mouth.   
  
It is so incredibly inappropriate of him to be thinking of this in a children's hospital, dear god.  
  
Resigned, he texts Sid back, _Meet you at the usual place._  
  
-  
  
Sid and Mary are already at the table when Eugene arrives. Mary waves him over, her curls bouncing with her excitement. Sid meets Mary at Harvard, a friend of a friend of Sid's old man's daughter, and they immediately hit it off. Mary looks like the type of girl Eugene's mom would want him to marry, sweet smiles and blonde hair falling in ringlets over her narrow shoulders.   
  
If only her mom hears her speak.  
  
The menu hasn't even left the table when Eugene finds Mary and Sid looking at him meaningfully.   
  
Sid must've told him Mary. Everything Eugene tells him, he tells Mary. They're _that_ couple. Eugene would hate them if he doesn't love them so much.  
  
"So..." Mary says imploringly, hands on her chin and elbows on the table.  
  
Eugene sighs, running a hand down his face. "Can we forget about this?"  
  
"No!" Sid says, joining Mary in her pose. "Eugene, you came home in someone else's jacket and lost your keys. We all know we can't just forget this."  
  
That reminds him - he still needs to call his landlord for spare keys.  
  
How does he even begin to tell this story? I accidentally went backstage with a group of groupies and fucked the lead vocalist of my favorite band. That seems to oversimplify things, to turn what he had last night into some anecdote he tells to impress new people. It doesn't explain the complex feelings Eugene has in his chest, of finding something completely endearing in the way Snafu tilts his chin and asks him if he wants to keep going.  
  
But there's no way Eugene's ever telling them that.  
  
“Well, if you’re not ready to talk about it,” Mary unfolds a napkin and puts in on her lap. “We can always talk about something else. How was the concert, Eugene? Did you enjoy it?”

Eugene’s expression must’ve given away everything, because Mary gasps, blue eyes lighting up with realization. “Oh,” Mary says. “This has to do with the concert, doesn’t it?”

There’s no use trying to deflect from Mary once she’s absolutely certain that something is going on, so Eugene only exhales. “It happened after the concert,” he starts, something heavy in his mouth. “I needed a smoke after the concert –“

Mary shakes her head in disapproval, the long earrings she wears swaying in tandem. She hates his smoking, wanting him to stop so badly that once, when he and Sid used to share an apartment, she held an intervention and explained to him in powerpoint slides the dangers of smoking and the health benefits that would come if he were to stop.

“ – so I went outside, stumbled upon this group of twenty-somethings who were also smoking. I’d forgotten to bring my lighter, so I borrowed theirs, and we kinda started talking for a while.” At this point, Sid’s expression is going through a journey of his own, no doubt jumping to the worst conclusions. It does nothing to ease Eugene’s nerves. What is the moral standing of a groupie? Has he somehow lowered his own self-worth by essentially whoring himself out?

He decides to stop beating around the bush. “Turns out, they’re groupies. Because I was hanging out with them, I got mistaken for one, too – and so I went with them. Backstage.” He clears his throat. “And then I fucked the lead vocalist.”

“You fucked Snafu?” Sid yells at the same time Mary asks, perhaps with too much excitement, “How was he?”

Eugene stares at both of them in disbelief – but mostly just at Mary. Sid’s sideways glare at Mary is hilarious, Eugene would laugh if he isn’t so nervous about what his friends think of him now. Mary obviously has no problems with this, but Sid’s a little bit harder to tell. He’s not always had the best track record when it comes to accepting Eugene’s sexuality. He’s trying to do better, asking Eugene about his dating life occasionally to show that he cares, but his attitude for the most part follows closely the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy that has Eugene feeling wary at times.

“Sorry,” Mary says, mostly to Sid. “He’s kind of on my List.”

Eugene can hear the capital _l._ “On your _List_?”

“Yeah, like a list of people that you can sleep with in a relationship?” Mary says, like it’s somehow a popular trend between dating people. “Snafu’s in my List, as in, if I were to sleep with him, while still in a relationship with Sid, he would give me a pass.”

“That,” Eugene blinks, “does not make sense.”

“I keep telling her that!” Sid leans forward in his seat.

“Oh, shush,” Mary waves her hand. “I won’t _actually_ sleep with him, dummy, I love you too much. But Eugene here –“

Eugene buries his face in his hands. “God, don’t remind me.”

“Why?” Mary implores. “Was he bad?”

“If you’re going to talk about this Snafu fellow’s dick, I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Sid warns. Mary doesn’t listen.

 _Was he bad?_ Eugene can’t recall one single bad moment from his encounter. The sex they had was too rough to be considered as anything normal, but in between those moments – in between Eugene choking on him – Snafu had been _caring_. He’d stopped, asked Eugene if he wanted to go on, cleaned him up, even gave him his goddamn jacket.

So, no – Snafu was anything _but_ bad.

“I can see by the one-thousand-mile stare you got going on that bad sex isn’t the case,” Mary says. Then her eyes widen, as if realizing something sinister. She grips Eugene’s wrist tightly. “Did he do anything you didn’t want to?”

“No! No – it isn’t anything like that.” Mary relaxes her grip, but there is still concern in her eyes. Eugene inhales sharply. “I just – I can’t stop thinking about it?”

“Oh, dear,” Mary puts a hand over her mouth – and it’s so terrifying how alike she looks to his mom when she does that. “Is this the good ol’ case of catching feelings?”

Is he catching feelings? Getting face-fucked by someone who he idolizes is bound to incite some feelings. Elation, mostly – isn’t it a dream come true? But what Eugene feels is the furthest thing from that: confused and convoluted, so many things at once that Eugene can’t pinpoint one that makes sense.

He feels something. That much is clear, if he can’t stop thinking about the little instances when Snafu showed more kindness than Eugene expected.

“He gave me his jacket,” Eugene says, by way of explaining. “And – during the… you know, he was unsurprisingly gentle? He’s a rockstar, he could’ve just taken what I willingly gave him and kicked me out, but he didn’t. He cleaned me up while I was asleep, and gave me his jacket.”

“Uh, too much details,” Sid straightens up. “Eugene, I love you, but this is too much for my ears. Listen, you said it yourself, Snafu’s a _rockstar_. He probably does it in every city he has a concert it. I doubt that thought about it as much as you did.”

It hurts Eugene to admit that Sid is probably right, which frustrates him because he should even be hurt over a one-night-stand, as amazing as it was.

“What Sid means to say is – “ Mary interjects, sending a mean glare in Sid’s way. “ – I think perhaps you got confused, because Snafu is someone you idolize. You ever heard of the saying, never meet your heroes? Well, I think that when you found out that not only Snafu isn’t an asshole, but also very considerate, you got yourself thinking that maybe it means something.”

“Putting that psychology major to use, I see,” Eugene says dryly.

“If I slept with Snafu,” Mary says, ignoring Sid’s distressed whine, “I would have some very confusing feelings if he was that nice to me. This is just me, but if I were you, I’d try not to think too much about it. Keep the jacket, wear it sometimes – but know that it’s really probably going to end up as an anecdote you tell some work friends when you want to impress them.”

“Oh, look, the food!” Sid points joyfully.

As if on cue, the waitress comes by with their food after Mary’s finished speaking. Eugene feels that he should give this apron-wearing savior extra tip for her impeccable timing. Eugene’s not the only one grateful for the save, it seems – Sid digs in immediately like he’s never felt happier to eat than this moment.

The subject is quickly laid to rest as they each eat their lunch. Though Snafu remains stubbornly at the back of his head, the weight that Eugene’s been carrying has at least been lifted off. Mary is probably right; nothing would ever come out of it. They had one magical moment – and that’s all.

It _shouldn’t_ mean anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! ive always loved the idea of sid being bros with sledge and i think its rather unfair that he always ends up as the homophobic one. so, here mary and sid as bros with eugene! 
> 
> im sorry that this seems a bit rushed, i have my finals tomorrow but i dont want y'all to wait for too long
> 
> also im watching crazy rich asians as im editing this, and i cant wait to write cheesy romancey stuff for these two
> 
> please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Bill Leyden doesn’t give a shit about Snafu Shelton.

It’s no secret that the two are the band members that never see eye to eye. As much as the band would like to keep it under wraps, it’s become a common knowledge by now, something that their fans and the press are aware of and like to sensationalize. Snafu had never been kind to the replacements before Bill, and when he first joined the band as a touring member, he had no expectations that Snafu would treat him any different. Snafu didn’t make an effort to get friendly with him, so Bill simply stuck to his job, an easy feat considering his mom said he practically came out of the womb drumming.

He gets on with Burgie much better – then again, Burgie’s always been a friendly man. Hamm was a bit too testy for Bill’s liking, and he felt nothing at all when Hamm eventually departed, bringing in Jay  to the picture. Burgie warmed up to him fast, and Bill found him agreeable. They make a good band – so good, that before the last album tour ended, Robert Leckie, the band manager, offered him a contract to be a permanent member. A contract which Snafu veto’ed, for no apparent good reason. Bill wouldn’t be surprised if he was just doing it for the sake of being difficult. It seemed like a perfectly Snafu thing to do.

Burgie apparently wore him down, and two months after the contract was initially brought up, Bill became an official member of the band. The management made an announcement on _The Pacific_ ’s social media accounts and threw him a party, and the day after that, they were shipped off to London to record Bill’s first album with _The Pacific._ For Snafu and Burgie, it would be their third.

This point in history is where Bill and Snafu start to have fights. Snafu is an eccentric guy – he’s a guy who calls himself _Snafu,_ for god’s sake – and Bill is well aware of his own short fuse. Clash of personalities are bound to happen. At first it’s over some creative decisions – a beat here and there that Snafu doesn’t like, lyrics that to Bill just sounds like stoned thoughts. Bill’s good at compromise – he grew up with four sisters as the youngest brothers, he’s used to fighting for his own share. But compromise works only as long as both parties are interested in it, and Snafu clearly is not.

If Snafu is just simply stubborn about the music, Bill can handle it. In fact, Bill would prefer it – in the rock world, Snafu is a household name. He is a giant asshole, but he’s also a genius who writes two number-one hits in one year, bringing rock music back to the stage in an era where Bill’s drumkit can be completely taken over by a computer program. Bill can understand the ego of a pretentious artist, but that’s not the case for him. Snafu just wants to argue because he wants to. The more his antics frustrate Bill, the more it amuses Snafu, and Bill refuses to deal with his shit. So Bill pushes back, doing things exactly the way Snafu doesn’t want it and reveling in the way Snafu fumes at him after.

Burgie is the sole reason why Bill and Snafu haven’t killed each other yet. He consistently maintains his role as the buffer between their two strong personalities as well the only person in the band who has enough authority to make even Snafu listen. Bill’s rejected ideas usually end up being recycled by Burgie’s brilliant mind – if Snafu is the mastermind behind _The Pacific_ ’s musical success, Burgie is the steering wheel that keeps them on track. Snafu calls him a glorified babysitter, and if Bill isn’t allergic to agreeing to Snafu he would say Snafu is right.

He doesn’t get the urge to punch Snafu as often now – somewhere in the process of making the album and sharing close quarters during tour, their fighting has become less vicious and more habitual. Snafu teases, Bill bites back, and that’s become their whole dynamic, even if the press can’t tell sometimes if Bill is joking when he says he wants to kill Snafu. He still doesn’t have the biggest love for the guy, but some things are just hard to miss, and when Snafu rolls into the plane after Boston without his god-awful green jacket, even Bill notices.

Snafu lies when Burgie asks him, making up some story about it being lost in security check, but tells their hairdresser when they’re in Berlin some days later that he gets a stain on it and decides to throw it away. Their fans notice, and on the first concert they perform without Snafu’s green jacket, the hashtag _#GiveSnafuHisJacketBack_ trends on Twitter for two hours.

Bill posts a new poll on Thursday.

It says _, How do you think Snafu lost his jacket?_

The options are, _sold it for weed_ , which is currently the leading answer with 78% votes, and _accidentally used it as an asswipe_.  Fans are replying to his tweet, some upset that Bill is being too mean, and others joining in with their own conspiracy theories. Snafu tweets another lie about how he’s offered a better deal from Versace, and the next day someone from Versace _actually_ calls with a sponsorship deal.

While their finance department is very happy, their publicist is having a hard time handling the rage of Gucci representatives.

And Snafu, as always, is just simply amused by all this.

-

They have a section in their concert where they let each member perform something of their own – Burgie usually spends five to seven minutes shredding his guitar, Jay accompanying him with some truly complicated bass lines, and Bill has fun with his drum kit. Snafu usually sings a couple of songs on the piano, a cover of someone else’s song or whatever he feels like singing that day. Most concerts, it’s a slow version of their songs, and other times, when Snafu’s feeling adventurous, he crosses genre and sings Sinatra.

Tonight he’s singing Adele, and that’s the first sign that something is wrong.

“Is he singing _Chasing Pavements_?” Burgie asks, sending him a puzzled look.

“That wasn’t on the set list,” one of the crew frowns. He must be a new one; Snafu rarely sings anything on the set list for his solo time.

“Is he okay?” Flo jumps in. “’Cause you’re never okay if you’re singing Adele unironically. That’s just a fact.”

Bill quirks an eyebrow at Snafu when he returns. “Adele, really?”

Snafu simply grins and blows his smoke at him.

Bill disperses the smoke by waving his hand. “One of these days, your smoking habit is going to make you lose your voice.”

“And that’ll be the day,” Snafu says.

Snafu slaps Burgie’s ass as the lead guitarist runs up on stage, Jay in tow. It gets captured on camera, and the fans have a field day with it. So does the press – they love speculating about Snafu’s sexuality. It’s their favorite topic other than Snafu’s birth name and his alcoholic tendencies.

It’s weird the first time, but Snafu sings Adele again on their next concert – _Someone Like You_ this time – and at this point Bill is just concerned, if only for the reputation of _The Pacific_ as the rock renaissance band _._ People who form mosh pits at their shows definitely do not show up for an Adele cover. When he does it again in Prague and Amsterdam, Burgie is ready to stage an intervention.

“One is an accident, two is a coincidence, and three is a pattern,” Burgie says cryptically. “Then what’s four?”

“There better not be a four,” Bill mutters darkly.

Flo holds her hands to her chest. “You offend me! Adele’s not that bad.”

“It is when Snafu’s singing it,” Bill decides.

There is not a fourth time, because this time, in Budapest, Snafu just sings the saddest song that Bill’s ever heard. It’s also not a song on their record because later Snafu admits he’s just written it three hours before they went live, which is _insane_. The fans scramble to record it and bombard their social media accounts asking if it’s a new song, and if so, _why has_ The Pacific _turned to such a direction? Please go back to writing songs about wanting to topple the government!_

Snafu’s Sad Song – he hasn’t even come up with a title yet – does not become a single, but it fills Bill with questions. Snafu evades and makes fun whenever anyone asks. Bill doesn’t even bother asking. He’s learned that no one will ever get a straight answer out of Snafu. If Snafu wants you to know, he’ll make you work for it.

Bill doesn’t really work for it so much as stumbling upon it on Instagram while mindlessly scrolling through his explore page – _it_ being a viral video of a redheaded pediatrician distracting a baby from shots with goofy tunes. The video is posted by the baby’s mother, thanking the doctor whose name is apparently Eugene Sledge, if his Instagram handle is anything to go by. Bill clicks on it because that’s what people do when there are links in a post and they have four hours until the next flight.

Eugene’s profile is not private, but he’s only posted three pictures of scenery, which tells Bill nothing about his personality. His tagged photos offer more content, and on the first one, he’s posing with a man and a woman in a restaurant, wearing a jacket that looks entirely _too_ familiar.

“Hey, isn’t that… whatshisname?” Flo peers over his shoulders. “Edward?”

“Eugene,” Bill recalls.

“So he _is_ a pediatrician!” Flo says. “If I’m being honest, I didn’t think he was telling the truth when we asked.”

Bill shows her the picture of him wearing what is possibly definitely Snafu’s jacket. “That look familiar to you?”

Burgie joins in, because where Flo is, he goes. Bill would hate them if they don’t make is heart go all warm and fuzzy sometimes. “What are you guys looking at?” He takes one look at Bill’s phone screen, brows creasing. “Is that…”

“Eugene, yes,” Flo supplies helpfully.

“And is he wearing Snaf’s jacket?” Burgie says.

“So it _is_ his jacket!” Bill exclaims.

The cause of Snafu’s teenage-like angst bullshit has been found.

He DMs Eugene's Instagram handle to Snafu, and for good measure, follows and messages Eugene, knowing that Snafu would take approximately ten weeks to gather the guts to message Eugene first.

_Snafu's been real hung up over you. Talk to him._

Eugene doesn't follow Snafu on Instagram – doesn’t appear to follow anyone beyond his friends, really, so Bill sends him Snafu's Instagram handle as well.

Satisfied, he closes his Instagram app and switches to Spotify. Snafu better buy him drinks, or at the very least thank him; he's done a great service to him and the world, and it's Snafu's turn to take the leap.

-

Going viral (Eugene dislikes calling it as that, but, for lack of better word) makes him somewhat of a local celebrity in Massachusetts General Hospital, which is pretty interesting – he's gotten more looks and numbers slipped into his pocket than the entirety of his dating life in the last year combined. His phone has been going off non-stop, though, and it's why he's had to put it on silent for most of the day, causing him to miss several missed calls from his parents and Sid. His notifications are blowing up so much that it drains his phone battery. At 20%, he decides to log out of Instagram altogether so he at least has enough battery to order a _Lyft_.

He only logs in to Instagram again late at night, after he's settled on his couch with a full stomach and a glass of wine. His notifications are still going strong; absentmindedly, he scrolls through some of the replies, the DMs people send him. There are a _lot_ , and Eugene doesn’t blame himself for missing it the first time – but once he scrolls back up, the blue check mark beside Bill Leyden's name is undeniable.

"What," Eugene says, sitting straight up. He clicks on the message, rereads it about a million times until the words seem to blur together. He clicks on Bill Leyden's profile just to confirm that _yes_ , this is indeed the drummer from _The Pacific_ , and not some kind of scam. Yes, this is indeed Bill telling him to talk to Snafu because he's been hung up over Eugene.

He texts Mary Houston, because Sid will be completely useless in this situation.

_I need your thoughts on something._

Without waiting for Mary to respond, Eugene sends a screenshot of his conversation with Bill Leyden. It sounds even weirder in a sentence like that. But Eugene supposes that he slept with his lead vocalist not a month ago, so life has been a little weird lately.

Mary's response is, _????!!!!_

Followed by, _You made sure it's legit?_

_I clicked on his username after and it takes him to the real Bill Leyden’s profile. So, yes._

Mary calls him five minutes later. Eugene picks up on the first ring. “Okay, so I’m calling you from the kitchen because Sid is still sensitive about the whole Snafu thing,” she says in a hushed voice. Eugene is pretty sure that if she’s trying not to be conspicuous, hiding in the kitchen and whispering into a phone is not the way, but that’s Mary’s logic for you. “But all I can say is, Eugene!!!” she squeals, as loud as she can while being discreet. “You are living the plot of a One Direction fanfiction.”

“When you put it that way, it makes this whole thing feel ten times worse than it is,” Eugene says.

“He is hung up over you! And his bandmate went out of their way to contact you just to tell you to talk to him!” Mary lets out a dreamy sigh. “Don’t forget me when you’re famous.”

“I’m not – this isn’t –“ Eugene runs a hand down his face. Maybe he should’ve called Sid. “Mary. Come on. Be reasonable.”

“This is as reasonable as you get,” Mary replies gravely. “Did you know he’s been covering a lot of Adele? He even sang, like, the saddest song ever in Budapest, that every gossip channel is trying to figure who he wrote it about, and now Bill slid into your DM telling you to talk to Snafu?”

Eugene had the The Pacific and related keywords muted on his Twitter to make everything easier for the last two weeks, so he did not know. “The saddest song ever?”

“Yes, Eugene. Did you not hear me?” Eugene doesn’t have to be there to see the eyeroll.

“This could be a prank,” Eugene says.

“Or, this could be the romance to rival Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. Although, if this _is_ a prank, I would make sure Bill no longer can play the drums in a flash.”

“Please don’t commit murder,” Eugene sighs. “Or mutilate anyone.”

“Oh, shoot, Sid is coming over. Look, Eugene, I know your self-preservation instincts told you not to believe in anything good that happens, but give it a try. It can’t hurt.” Mary’s voice suddenly turns overly polite, unlike the Mary Eugene knows at all. “Thank you, but we’re not interested in cable TV. We have Netflix and Hulu. Goodbye! Oh, hi, Sid, didn’t you see there. Yeah, that was just a cable TV promotion –“

The call ends abruptly, leaving Eugene to stare at Bill’s message again.

Idle scrolling through Instagram brings him to a recording of Mary’s so-called saddest song ever on a fan account with a thousand followers. He unmutes the video, the relative quiet in his apartment broken by the loudness of a concert hall. He can’t say much about the quality of the video, but at least Snafu’s piano solo still comes through loud and clear, even though he can hear the person holding the video constantly murmuring, _Oh my God, oh my God_.

Snafu hums into the microphone, sounding sad and wistful. He presses two high notes, one after another, and addresses the crowd with a, “ _Anyone up for some elegy?”_ before the lyrics pour in. Eugene can’t hear it clearly – it is a truly horrible recording – but he gets this feeling deep in his chest, like he’s yearning for something. The video cuts off thirty seconds into the song, and Eugene scours his feed trying to find a complete version.

There isn’t one, as it turns out – most of the concert-goers, at least from what the captions say, only started recording after they realized this is a new song, therefore no one got a hold of the full version. Eugene finds that hard to believe; in _this_ day and age?

There is, however, the remaining two minutes of the song, starting exactly where that first video cut off. Eugene practically pastes his ear to the speaker, hoping to hear the words correctly. Blessedly, the audience goes quiet at the end of the song, as Snafu hits high notes and trills his voice, and if Eugene closes his eyes, he can imagine being in the audience, feeling the desperation and yearning in Snafu’s voice right to his chest.

The video ends to a roaring applause. Snafu has a stunned look on his face, like he can’t quite believe people are praising his song. “ _Thanks, guys_ ,” he says into the microphone. “ _I was just fucking around with that song_.”

It _is_ a sad song. Snafu’s definitely going through some things. But there is no definitive proof that he wrote the song about Eugene.

There is no way.

-

It’s one in the morning in Paris when Bill tweets, _Just want to let you all know, if I don’t perform tonight, it’s because Snafu finally snapped and killed me._

It has two thousand retweets in under a minute. Snafu replies back, _Good fucking riddance._

_-_

Eugene’s shift the next day starts a little later than usual, so he gets up and goes for a jog. He stops at _BoB’s,_ the local coffee shop, on his way back. It is owned by his co-worker’s ex-marine boyfriend, who, for some reason, goes by Babe, a fellow redhead who makes the best pastry in the States in Eugene’s opinion. The shop is already bustling with customers when Eugene walks in, a folk song playing in the radio connected to the speaker. Eugene takes his earphones out of his ears and lets the cord dangle from underneath his t-shirt. Mary makes fun of him for not using cordless earphones, but Apple isn’t going to trick him into buying a new phone just so he can lose his earphones.

“Babe,” he greets when he gets to the register.

“The usual?” Babe asks with a smile.

“Yes, thank you.”

His usual is a cold-brew and Babe’s croissant of the day. As he waits for Babe to heat up the croissant – it’s a turkey one, a new recipe which has Eugene’s mouth watering at the right – the radio host speaks up.

“… _now, there are a lot happening in the entertainment world that we can’t always keep up with, so we try to keep you updated in a segment we call, Hot Thrills!”_ Eugene scrunches up his nose. Is there a more cringe-worthy name for the gossip segment?

“That’ll be seven dollars,” Babe reappears with his coffee and croissant.

Eugene pats down his shorts, fishing out a ten-dollar bill.

“ _We have it on good authority that the new song that Snafu Shelton, vocalist of punk renaissance band_ The Pacific, _wrote the sorrowful Elegy song about a mysterious woman he met while on tour in Europe,”_ one of the radio hosts announces.

“ _That can literally be anyone,”_ the other radio host counters.

Eugene silently agrees with this clearly more sensible host.

Babe hands him his change, and another brown paper bag. “Thai tea muffin,” he explains. “This one’s on the house, we’re trying out a new recipe.”

“Wow, thanks,” Eugene grins. “You’re going to make my blood sugar really high if you keep giving me free muffins.”

Laughing, Babe shoos him over to make way for another customer and Eugene steps to the side when he feels his phone vibrates in his pocket. Feeling it may be important – Renee, the head nurse, usually texts him stats of the patients he keeps overnight for observation – he transfers the muffin bag onto one hand, and keeps his coffee cup pressed in the crook of his elbow precariously. With his free hand, he unlocks his phone to find it already open on his direct messages on Instagram.

The newest one is sent from user _snafushelton._

-

Eugene, his coffee, croissant, and free banana muffin, manage to make it home safely after he stows his phone away back in his pocket. He feels like this message is something that he needs to read in a contained environment, like his own bedroom, so he can react to it authentically.

First, he confirms that it’s Snafu. Once he’s brought to Snafu’s verified profile, he presses the backspace so he’s staring at his list of unread direct messages again. He taps it, and reads, _So you still wear my jacket around._

Alright. What is he supposed to say to that?

_You gave it to me._

Is it the right amount of coy? Trying too hard?

He finally settles on, _Since you threw away my jacket, I really have no choice._

To Eugene’s surprise, three bubbles appear almost immediately. Snafu’s online. Eugene has no idea where in the world he is right now, but he knows that it can’t be morning where Snafu is.

_Didn’t realize you had your keys in there._

Eugene almost forgot about that, now that he’s safely duplicated his key and kept a spare one underneath the ‘welcome!’ mat that Mary and Sid gave him as a housewarming gift to prevent similar scenarios. He types back, _And that’s why you shouldn’t just throw people’s clothes away._

Eugene waits, but the bubbles don’t come. With a sigh, he finishes his breakfast while watching the rest of the _Downtown Abbey_ episode he hadn’t caught up since a season ago. He spends too long in the bathroom and has to tell his disgruntled driver to speed up, but he gets to work on time in one piece. He gives the driver a five-star, and barely resists checking back on his Instagram.

There’s a new message, and Eugene peeks at it from beneath his desk.

_But you like the jacket._

“Nice jacket, Doc,” Roe greets when they both check in.

Eugene surprises himself when he looks in the mirror and finds that that he’s hastily thrown on Snafu’s green jacket on his way out. He clears his throat. “Thanks, Roe.”

Eugene is grinning when he puts his phone on silence, ready to face the day – but not before shooting a quick reply, _Maybe I do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the viral video i mentioned is this one https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6m-9itperOw&t=63s imagine eugene doing that ok
> 
> apologies for the long wait! so when i first wrote this, i really intended this to be just a smutty fic about snafu being a rockstar, idk what happens but there is now Feelings and i have to adjust the chapters to make for the plot. since this is set in the 2010s, social media is going to be a permanent fixture in this. i know the pacific fics are usually on the serious side, but i want to bring this silly fic to offset all the angst lol
> 
> i will try to finish this before my school starts back in february (engineering school is an Asshole) so wish me luck! thank you so much for reading. i've proof-read this a couple of times, but if you still find any errors, please notify me! 
> 
> also since tumblr is going through Stuff, feel free to follow me on @tinypoffertjes on Twitter and yell with me about sledgefu <3

**Author's Note:**

> like all sledgefu trash do, i watched bohemian rhapsody and is completely overtaken by Feelings. rami malek deserves an oscar as much as joe mazzello does, i love them both, but for some reason, i cant write a proper band AU with snafu as the singer and sledge as the bassist. but i still want to see rockstar!snafu, so this is the result of it.
> 
> i've already written 10k and im not gonna stop,, help
> 
> also: despite the power imbalance that might come from being a fan and wanting to sleep with your idol, everything is purely consensual and no one is forced into anything. im on tumblr as mighty-poffertjes! hmu if u want <3


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